


Monkey and Bear

by mandragoraa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, I swear this has a happy-ish ending, Vargo Hoat is the worst, bear baiting, inspired by Joanna Newsom's "Monkey & Bear", mummer's troupe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-04 21:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14028912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandragoraa/pseuds/mandragoraa
Summary: Tyrion washes up on the banks of the Blackwater Rush after the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Jaime doesn't come back in time to save Brienne from the Harrenhal Bear Pit."Did you hear that, Bear?" Said Monkey,"We'll get out of here, fair and squareThey've left the gate open wide!"





	Monkey and Bear

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very much inspired by the amazing Joanna Newsom (I love her so much omg) and her song "Monkey & Bear" from her album Ys. Would highly recommend listening to her music. I think it fits in beautifully with the ASoIaF universe. 
> 
> Warning that this story will feature a fair amount of emotional and psychological abuse as well as some non-con scenarios. Rating will possibly change as the story goes on, we'll see.
> 
> This story is un-betaed so all mistakes are my own.

Tyrion woke to a searing pain across his face and cold fingers of the Blackwater Rush lapping at his feet. He tried to lift his head, but found himself unable. He winced and brought up an arm to shield his eyes from the dull shine of the sun. He had lost his helm and one of his gauntlets. The other was so scratched and dented that no trace of Lannister red remained on its lobstered metal. Clouds cloaked the sky from view and, from what Tyrion had read in one of his many books, it looked like it might rain. He closed his eyes tight and tried to recall how he had arrived here, crusted in silt and mud, his head throbbing, lain beside a jagged piece of timber.

Pod had tried to save him, foolish boy. When Ser Mandon Moore had pressed the blade of his sword into the hollow of Tyrion’s throat, the squire had appeared like an apparition wreathed in the green glow of wildfire. The boy had barreled into the knight’s side. For a moment it seemed as if the fight had ended. The two of them would live to see another day. Pod gave Tyrion a small smile and for a moment Tyrion could have sworn the boy’s face changed into that of Jaime's. But Ser Mandon had grasped Pod’s ankles as fell and dragged the squire into the dark waters of the bay with him. Tyrion could still hear the crush of the two hulls against one another. He should never have allowed the boy to follow him into battle, let alone given him a sword.

Perhaps none of that had happened. Perhaps Ser Mandon’s pale eyes and outstretched hand had only been a nightmare. Perhaps he had dreamt Pod’s smile.

Tyrion turned his head to side with a groan. A burnt arm lay ten yards away from him. Carrion crows pecked at the charred flesh, stringy morsels hanging from their beaks, and Tyrion felt his stomach lurch. He rolled onto his stomach, his head roiling, a sharp pain between his ribs, and retched. His nose and cheek burned and Tyrion watched as a few drops of blood fell from his face into the puddle of vomit. His vision blurred. He blinked and tried to push himself to his feet only to fall into the shallows of the Rush. The cold water soothed the fire in his head, lapping at his cheeks. It ate away at the lethargy in limbs. The sky swam above him, a piercing blue that hurt his eyes. Tyrion dug his fingers into the silt beneath him, feeling the way it slipped through his fingers. He was alive.

He heard a  _thump_  as something fell to the mud of the banks. For a moment he wondered if the fighting had followed him. Perhaps Ser Mandon had survived the crush of the boats and had come to finish him off. But no, the skies were clear of smoke and only the cries of birds cut through the air.  _An apple or some other low-hanging fruit_ , Tyrion thought,  _nothing to be afraid of. The battle is over._  A quiet gasp cut through his contemplation and he sat up with a start. Not fifteen feet from him stood a small girl in a stained rough-spun slip, at her feet lay a woven basket. Mollusks spilled on the ground from the basket before her feet. The girl met his eyes through the curtain of her dark hair and let out a shriek. Tyrion stumbled toward her, his hands outstretched in an attempt to console her. He only made it two feet before he fell on his stomach, his face inches away from the sick he had brought up only moments ago. The world swam around him and he closed his eyes.

When next he opened them, Tyrion found himself in a small room with rough-hewn walls and a single window. Someone had lain him on a straw mattress under a thick wool blanket and relieved him of what remained of his armor. They had stripped him of his doublet and trousers and left him in a clean tunic. A long strip of linen had been wrapped about his head and the pain behind his eyes had lessened. When he closed his eyes he saw Ser Mandon reaching for him with the wrong hand, his sword drawn. Fear swept over him in a cold rush as he felt the blade cut into the flesh of his cheeks. The knight had tried to kill him. It had not been a mistake nor had it been a nightmare. Someone wanted him dead. Cersei must have paid the knight to see that her brother never came back from the battle. What else? Who else? Tyrion felt he should be angered by this realization, but he felt nothing but the pain in his head and the pain in his side. He was too tired to be angry. Ser Mandon would have split Tyrion’s head in two if not for Pod. Pod, poor boy. The crush of hulls echoed in his head once more.

Tyrion must have drifted back to sleep, for when next he woke a small cough brought him back to the cramped room. In the corner the girl from the river sat on a chair repairing a net. She was a tiny thing, no taller than Tyrion himself and as thin as the reeds that bordered the Blackwater Rush. Clever brown eyes resided in a plain, thin face and mud-colored hair fell in a clumsy braid over her shoulder. Tyrion watched her nimble fingers pluck at the tangled net, stitching holes closed and pulling knots free with such speed it seemed second nature. Those same fingers reached up to a pale cheek and scratched. Tyrion could see a few flakes of skin fall away from her face. He made to sit up and winced as pain shot between his ribs on his left side. He threw the covers off of his legs and shifted his way over to the edge of the mattress.

“You shouldn’t do that.” He looked up and found those clever brown eyes boring into him. Tyrion furrowed his brow and regretted the action as fire burned between his eyes. “Me ma says that if you moves too much that cut won’t heal up proper. I’m supposed to make sure you don’t do nothin’ stupid, she says. So don’t get out of that bed and don’t move your face.”

Tyrion lowered himself back onto the mattress and watched as the girl continued her repairs all while looking him in the eye. She cocked her head, considering him. Tyrion resisted the urge to mirror her. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow. His throat hurt and his mouth felt stuffed with cotton.

“Water,” he murmured, “I need water.”

The girl set her net aside and hefted a clay pitcher from a table Tyrion hadn’t notice. She poured a clear stream into a mug. Tyrion could see beads of water condense on the thick sides of the glass. He grasped at the mug when she held it out to him and drank as much water as he was able, spilling just as much on his tunic and the bedding as he did down his gullet. The water clean and cold and soothed its way down his throat. Nothing had every felt so good. The girl giggled as he emptied the mug and held it out to her for more. She filled it to the brim this time, the water threatening to splash over the rim. Tyrion took a slow sip this time, savoring the feel of the cold water in his mouth. He let out a sigh and held the mug in his hands.

“Thank you, child.” The girl blushed in response and resumed repairing her net. He watched her fingers pick and weave their way through the broken fibers. “You have very quick fingers, did you know? Some of the fastest I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen knights practice their sword play.”

“You’ve met knights? _Real_ knights?” The girl’s fingers stopped what they were doing and she turned her brown eyes to him in awe. “You must be some fancy highborn to know _real_ knights.”

Tyrion shifted beneath his blanket. His lovely sister had tried to have him killed and Seven knew what awaited him in King’s Landing if he returned. The girl looked at him expectantly, worrying the net between her hands.

“I was born just outside Lannisport. I’m afraid I’m no lord.” Better to tell something born from truth than an outright lie. The girl considered him for a moment before returning to her work.

“What are you called?” She asked as she tied off her thread, the net mended. Tyrion felt panic rise up his throat. He toyed with a corner of the blanket between his thumb and forefinger. Who should he say he was? He didn’t dare give his true name, else the girl be one of Varys’ little birds or should she let it slip that she housed a Lannister. He racked his mind for a name. Jon perhaps or Willam. Yet those names felt too plain to be believed. He thought of the stories his Septa had told him as a child and of the tales he had read—mayhap he would find a name there. A small smile played on his lips when he remembered the character.

“I, sweet girl, am Simius, named for the famed trickster of the Age of Heroes.”

The girl wrinkled her nose, “I don’t think I’ve heard that’un before.” She pulled a bucket of brown-shelled mollusks onto her lap and drew a blade from the length of cloth tied about her waist. She began to shuck the creatures, scooping the soft centers out into a second bucket and dropping the shells to the floor.

“It’s a very long story I’m afraid, but a good one.” Tyrion’s fingers itched to rub his ruined face, but he resisted. “Tell me, do you have a favorite tale?”

The girl nodded, a stranded of stringy hair falling in her eyes. She pushed it back behind her ear and continued to divest the mollusks of their centers. “I like that one ‘bout the funny knight, Florian, and his lady Jonquil. I think it’s right nice.” A small smile crept on her lips. “I’d like a love that someday.” She added after a moment’s thought. “Me ma say thats foolish thinkin’, that I ain’t got no right to a love like that. She calls me a ‘silly clam’.”

Tyrion watched the girl and her buckets and felt a pang in his heart at her innocence. Florian and Jonquil had been Sansa’s favorite story as well. He wondered if she was happy he had not returned from the siege. He wondered if she still lived. Perhaps his bride had met the same untimely at as Pod. Perhaps that was the most merciful option for the girl. Tyrion realized with a start that he hoped that was not the case. If anyone deserved to live it was Sansa. Tyrion shook himself away from those thoughts and turned his gaze on the bold girl before him. “Well if it lifts your spirits, my mother often called me ‘monkey’ as a babe. Perhaps because of my propensity for japes.”

“Monkey?” She looked almost as she were about to laugh.

“I’m afraid so.” Tyrion chuckled sadly.

“But you don’t look like no monkey.” The girl screwed up her face, tilting her head as if trying to imagine what he would look like as an ape. She shook her head and a giggle slipped between her lips.

“There are many who would say otherwise and even more would claim I was born with a tail.” Tyrion murmured, forgetting for a moment the character he had woven. Perhaps now he could leave the title of “demon monkey” behind. If not he could play with the role he had been given.

“You have a tail?” A look of curious horror flickered behind her eyes.

“Oh no, sweetling, merely bottom same as any other man.” The girl giggled and wedged her blade in between the lips of a new mollusk. “And what do they call you, my little clam?”

“Molt.”

“What an odd name.” Tyrion mused. He scratched his chin and caught his fingers inching their way to his aching nose. He tucked his hands between his legs and looked once more upon the girl. She really was a small thing.

“Me mother says it’s one of them old names that means ‘might’, but I think she’s lying. I think it’s ‘cause my skin’s always flakin’ off. Like them snakes’ that live in the garden.” Molt scratched at her cheek again and scowled at the flurry of dried skin that fell away.

“Well I like it.” Tyrion told her. She narrowed her eyes as if expecting a jape to follow. “Your mother chose wisely. You are deserving of a name meaning ‘might’. I can think of no better name.” He said, his gaze solemn. A shy smile made its way onto her face. Molt ducked her head, her cheeks flushing and feet swinging, as she went back to shucking her mollusks.

“Now that we’ve been properly acquainted, why don’t you tell me what you are doing, Molt?” Tyrion asked, watching those nimble fingers hold brown shells firmly in their grasp.

“Shuckin’ clams and mussels. Me ma sends me out t’ the Rush to dig ‘em up for me da. He’s a fisherman. ‘Parently them mollusks make mighty tasty bait. All the fish flock to ‘em.” Molt wiped her hands on her rough-spun skirts. The mollusks looked nothing like the mussels he was familiar with. Tyrion watched the ease with which she split the shells in two. She had done this many times before, he could tell.

“Bait? Why waste a perfectly good mussel on trout or sturgeon when you could serve them in a sauce of Arbor Gold? I’m rather fond of mussels. Clams too for that matter.” Tyrion felt his stomach cramp, all this talk of shellfish was making him realize just how hungry he was.

“‘Cause thems taste like a dirty old shoe. You don’t eat freshwater mussels, e’eryone knows that.” Molt shook her head as if he had said she was queen of the world. “‘Sides, fried trout is always tasty.”

“You know better than I, child.”

“Could you tell me that story you was talkin’ ‘bout. The one about the fella you’re named for?” Molt asked, looking at Tyrion out of the corner of her eye. When he made a show of rolling his eyes and sighing, before nodding his head, she squealed with delight and set her buckets aside. He patted the edge of the bed and she bounded over and sat at his feet, a large smile plastered across her face.

“This is the tale of Simius the Silver-Tongued,” he began. “Many moons ago, long before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea, there lived a diver and his wife. They lived in a small cottage not far from a great fishing town that bordered the Simien Sea. The couple loved one another very much and had everything they could ask for, all but a child.”

Molt interrupted then, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed, “This is how all them tales start. That’s not anything special.” 

“I suppose you are right,” Tyrion admitted with a wry shake of his head, “but I promise you what follows is far different from any story you’ve ever heard before. I think you shall like it. It involves mollusks.” He gestured to her discarded mussel and clam shells. She tried to keep her bemused expression in place, but a giggle broke through. She nodded for him to continue.

“Now, each day the diver plunged deep into the waters to collect pearls to sell in town, while his wife waited on the pier, watching sky and sea for signs of what was to come. When he returned home, he plucked the finest pearl from his harvest and presented it to his lady wife. She strung each on a length of ribbon, each more beautiful than the last. But one day when the diver emerged, she turned his gift away.

“‘Each day you give to me a jewel,’ the diver’s wife said. ‘But there is only one jewel I desire—a jewel worth twice’s this woman’s life that cannot be found beneath the ocean’s edge.’

“‘What jewel is it you ask for, my love? Name it and I shall bring it to you.’ The diver promised, one hand over his heart, the other over his wife’s. 

“‘A child,’ was all she answered.”

Molt tucked her feet beneath her and pulled a corner of Tyrion’s blanket over her lap. Tyrion smiled to himself as he went on with the story.

“The following day, the diver stayed ashore. He had heard that a circus was coming to the great fishing town and he thought it a good way to take his wife’s mind off her motherlessness if only for a few hours. With the circus came a menagerie filled with every sort of animal imaginable. There were lizard lions and selkies and merlings and even a centaur hobbled to a silver pole. But the diver’s wife wanted only to look at a troop of monkeys huddled up in a painted caravan. There, a mother cradled her furry babe to her teat. A look of great sadness fell over the woman’s face. So the diver took his love home and did everything he could think of to make his wife happy.

“The next day, the diver thought on his wife’s wish as he sank to the ocean floor. When his feet touched the sandy bottom he came face to face with the largest pearl oyster he had ever seen. The oyster’s shell was a deep shade of red, scaled like a dragon, and near as long as his arm. The longer the diver stared upon it, the more the mollusk seemed to call out to him. As his lungs grew tight, he wrested it from the rock to which it clung and kicked up to the waiting surface. He hauled the oyster onto his anchored boat and took his knife in hand. He itched to see inside its shell. He pried the oyster open and within lay a pearl the size of his two fists clasped together, so silver that shadows seemed to move beneath its surface. Grooves encircled its body and bumps sprouted like eyes. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The diver thought to himself, ‘How could anyone find fault with a treasure such as this?’ So he turned his boat toward shore without a thought of any other dives he might accomplish that day. 

“When he reached shore, his wife ran from the pier to meet him, perplexed.

“‘Husband, what brings you ashore so early? You are not hurt, what has happened?’ She asked when they returned to their cottage. He bid her hold out her hands and placed his treasure in her awaiting palms. When she opened her eyes, the diver’s wife did not speak for a long while, only looked at the gem in her hands. In the end she turned her eyes to his and asked only, ‘Why?’ When he could not respond she began to cry, and as tears rolled down her cheeks, the pearl slipped from her fingers to shatter on the floor. 

“The diver fell to his knees and a great sob rent through his body. His wife, seeing what she had done, apologized in every way she knew, but nothing could stop his tears. In the end she gathered up the fragments and tucked her husband into bed. She crawled in after him, murmuring as she fell asleep, ‘I only wanted a child to call our own. It could be a monkey or a centaur or a merling. I only wanted a child.

“The following morn, the diver awoke and left for his boat, but he did not return. The diver’s wife did not worry herself more than necessary—her husband had oft gone on expeditions that lasted more than one day. Still, the next day he did not return. Nor the day after that. Nor the day after that. By the seventh day, the woman had given up hope of her husband’s safe return. That night she pieced together the fragments of the silver pearl and clutched it to her belly while she slept. As she drifted off, she again whispered, “I only wanted a child to call our own. It could be a monkey for all I care, just as long as it was my child.” She woke to find she had grown great with child and the pearl had vanished. The woman searched every nook and cranny, every corner in her cottage for the jewel her husband had brought her, but it was nowhere to be found. 

“Days later, the diver’s wife pushed her babe forth into the world. He was a small child, no larger than her two hands clasped together. When the diver’s wife saw her child, she realized her wish had been granted—she had given birth to a monkey. He was covered in a deep red-brown fur and small tail curled between his legs. When he opened his eyes, she say that they were the same silver as pearl—so bright they seemed molten. She pulled the babe closer to her bosom and stroked his thick fur, ‘It seems my husband honored his promise, little one. You were born from an oyster and born from my womb. For all the love I bore my lost love, so too shall I love you.’ And so she kissed her son’s head. ‘You shall be called Simius for the sea in which you were found, my dear child. And one day, mayhap you will find your father and thank him for bringing you to me.’”

Tyrion told of how Simius grew to be a clever but lonely young boy. How his mother had confined him to the house to protect him from insults. How he had fallen into a thorn bush from a tree, while watching the other children play games and be merry. How a barber had happened upon the monkey in the woods and offered to help get the thorns out of his tail with his silver razor, but how Simius had jumped, afraid of the blade, cutting his tail clean off. How he had traded his tail for the barber’s razor, because the man had taken his tail from him and it would only be fair if he gave Simius something in return. How he had run away then, afraid of his mother’s disappointment, to a seaside cavern. How Simius had washed his wound in the salt water and been called beneath the surface by the King of the Sea—a massive whirlpool that pulled sailors to their deaths and broke ships on rocky shores. How the King of the Sea had captured Simius’ father once he had discovered he had stolen his prized possession—his silver pearl. How Simius had tricked the King to trade him his father from the barber’s razor, which he claimed was made of the same silver pearl his father had stolen all those years ago. How the King was none the wiser and let Simius and his father return to their home. How once they had returned, Simius and his father filled the Sea King up with rocks, which the King ground to dust and how that dust choked him to death (that was how the sea floor became sandy); but not before the King had stolen Simius’ eyes. How the monkey’s eyes had looked so much like the pearl, that the King had to have them as well. How Simius and his father had returned home and were reunited with his mother. How they lived out the rest of their happily though less dangerously than they had before.

By the end of the tale, Molt had moved so close to Tyrion that she was near sitting on his lap. A sad smile graced her lips as she worried an edge of the blanket between her thumb and forefinger. Tyrion watched her fingers and was once again reminded of Sansa, but also of his niece, Myrcella. On more than one occasion she had snuck into his room to hear stories from all the books he had read and a few he remembered from his Septa. He smiled at the memory of her blonde head tucked beneath his as he spun tales before her eyes. Cersei had caught them once. That had put an end to that, but the memory still remained.

“So, my dear child, tell me—what do you think of my namesake?” Tyrion asked, turning his thoughts back to Molt, a girl so unlike both his niece and his child bride. She turned her gaze to meet his and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

“His pa was alive the whole time.” She murmured.

“Yes, he was.”

“I liked it rather a lot. I really did. Thank you, Simius, ser.” Molt smiled and looked for a moment like she was about to hug him, but then thought better of it. “You can stay as long as you want. Me ma said not to rush your recoverin’. Don’t want no festerin’ or nothin’. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.” And no doubt she would. Molt hopped off the bed and collected her buckets and shells, leaving the pitcher of water near his bed.

“Thank you, Molt,” he replied. When she had left the room and shut the door behind her, Tyrion let his eyes fall closed. He sighed. _It has been too long since I’ve heard someone laugh,_ he thought and let himself drift back to sleep.

He stayed with Molt and her family for near three moons, learning how to spot the bubbles that mollusks made in the sand and how to open them without cutting his fingers. He learned how to distinguish a few types of mushrooms; which were edible and which would make a man empty the contents of his stomach. Most of all he told stories. Many were tales he had learned over the years, but a few were of his own imagining. Molt liked those the best.

Tyrion was almost able to forget what had happened before Molt’s mother’s laughter and her father’s snoring. He was almost able to forget that he had been anyone other than Simius, but then the stub of his nose would itch or Tyrion would catch a glimpse of his scar in the water and remember. The longer he stayed with Molt’s family, the more restless he grew. His sister had wanted him dead. Should she find out that he still lived, there was no telling what she would do to Molt and her mother and father. He would not risk their lives for his own happiness. Tyrion set out for the Riverlands a week before the third moon, unsure of where he was headed or where he might go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter focuses on Jaime's return to King's Landing. Dw, there will be a lot of Jaime/Brienne in future chapters!


End file.
